It's The Way Aziraphale Is A Terrible Liar And Magician But He Always Effortlessly Pulls Through Whenever

Crowley's expressions of love in season 2

Bonus:

finished reading PnP and now i officially hate all the literary references that modern romances (like The Fine Print) make to PnP. Like no. Darcy was not a cold-hearted, empathy-devoid asshole like your male lead, maam. He was a little awkward, obstinate, prideful and *successfully* reflects that by HIMSELF and works on himself, not just to get the girl, but because thats what good men do.

Seriously, the only modern PnP reference i like anymore is probably like, good omens or something.

TGCF spread I made because why not? [Its messy. Just like, gods, humans and ghosts alike. Trust. (Totally not because i am bad at crafts)]

Art creds;

saadix.art on insta, for hua cheng icon above

(will edit and add later, cant find) xie lian icon below

rest are official arts or from manhua!

Do you ever have a mood like "I will change the world, work my ass off" and next second you are like "its just 1 life, I should live it to fullest" and just proceed to watch TV for hours.

Pleading for my exam tomorrow to be cancelled. Can't study jackshit atp. My mind is cooked.

Well. Now to get more serious.

As an indian, this entire india-pak conflict has been enlightening about one thing- other countries don't give a jackshit. Nor does global. In the sense that, the pain india felt due to Pahalgam can never be translated to you.

Disclaimer: I do not hope for a war or escalation. I am just tired of seeing people talk about this stuff in black and white terms.

I am tired of entire narrative with this, "ahhh india attacked civillians!"

Civilian deaths are to be mourned. They shouldn't happen. I pray for their families but the attack was never targeting civilians- unlike what Pak did last night. Which I will get to shortly.

So, it was a calculated retaliation (on terrorist sites) to Pahalgam which was fucking horrific and bone chilling. The entire country was chilled.

And yes. Pahalgam is backed by Pakistan. It has been a pattern. Here is a video to get you started on this mess, entire history of kashmir conflict and what not. The history of terrorism. It has sources linked.

Let's get to last night now.

I live in the state adjacent to a border one. My hometown itself was one of the places which was rained by missiles. My family could hear the blasts, the crackling noise till 2 am. My baby cousin was crying scared. All was dark and the only light was of missiles.

Pakistan attacked civillian cities, alongside the ones with army bases. They did not give a fuck.

I don't know how it isn't clear what the country is trying to do already.

I am just so sick. Hoping no escalation happens. We don't need a war. No one does. But stop painting India in red. Pakistan isn't the victim. They haven't been from a while.

Final words? Asking the common citizens of both countries to stay safe.

Tried writing a poem after three years.

cuddling is one of the least sexual form of intimacy a

pls rb if you think cuddling doesn't have to be s3xual

im tryna prove a point to my bf's mother help me out

"good things come to those who wait around"

and i have been waiting around forever, where are the good things. is there a glitch hello

HELLOOOOOOO

The Searcher

That’s enough, I think. Enough. It is 2.43 am when I glance at the ancient clock, ticking away. The room is ridden with dust, home of papers and sheets and ink. Pen and books. 

I have been trying and trying to write since long. It is not that the words have not been coming to me– they come, they ebb and they flow. But they miss something. And I am sure, so sure they miss something. 

I know this because they didn’t miss it when I was a kid. I remember my words having that something, that spark and that shine. They not only ebbed and flowed, but sung and danced and set up for the grandest of plays. 

And it’s not today, I am realizing this. I have been realizing it for a long time indeed. I have been trying to find that thing for weeks– the muse of the stories, the core they hold.

I have tried working in my college’s dorms, in public libraries, in the central park, countless different places at countless different times. I have tried searching for answers in the words of the greats, in the sermons of my professors and nothing worked. 

Nothing works. 

Maybe different, far from this modern life, I think. That is where I will find it. And so I decide to pack my bags and leave for the mountains in the North.

This may seem like I was overdoing it but I was not. I am obsessed– I need, need the words to come. I need to write the perfect story, the immaculate tale, the haunting novella that I have dreamed about since I was a young kid.

~

In my time in the mountains I seldom meet people. I usually spend my time working away under the trees, writing on paper after paper– disappointed, wandering from one corner to another until I reach a village. 

I meet an old woman there, sewing a bamboo hat together for herself. She has wise eyes, unkind face. She looks at me and asks, “What are you looking for, young lad?”

I tell her what I am looking for and ask her if she can help.

She shakes her head. “I am afraid not. I used to paint, you see.”

I ask her, “Used to?”

“Used to,” she confirms. “I don’t anymore. I lost it.”

Lost what? I ask.

She goes on that she used to paint, you see. That she was nearly 40 when she quit and she didn’t really know why but she stopped because the colors were not coming from long now, the muse was long gone. “I suppose it was inevitable,” she says. “I forced it for many years, couldn’t force it for life. I took up crafting then.” She holds up the bamboo hat. 

I ask her if she still feels natural at it. She shrugs, she says she is not sure.

“But I will advise you,” she says. “You won’t find it in people you are looking at.”

I am surprised and I ask, “Then where will I?”

“Ah, I..” she frowns. “I think I saw it in my young son once.”

“Where is he now?”

“Oh you know.” She waves her hand dismissively. “In England, studying.”

~

I leave the mountains soon to head for the rainforest. It is a strange thing, one can think. Why go so far for this? 

But if one thinks that, they won’t truly understand why. 

I believed– have believed from long that if you love something, you must be willing to love it till madness. You must continue to love, to create even if it drives you mad.

And in these moments, I thought, I was nearing a sort of madness. A madness of not men but gods.

In the rainforest, I spend my days by the trees, canopies and bushes. Near the streaming river as the hot sun casted glow on it, making the water sparkle. On the 3rd day, I reach a cabin in the middle of the woods. A man greets me. He is middle-aged and toys with a cigarette in his fingers. He glances at me and says he can tell I am looking for something. “What are you lookin’ for anyway, man?”

I tell him my troubles and he huffs.

“Get that, you won’t find it here,” he says.

“How do you know?” I ask.

“Well, I've been here for years. And I haven’t found it.”

“You are an artist?”

“I used to make music,” says the man and tells me about his life. From the man of city and modern worries to a nomad of forests. 

By the time he’s done and the next morning rolls around, I have left the forests. I wonder to myself what is it that the old lady and he are missing? What is it that we all are missing? 

I continue my search for months to come– like a wayfarer, going from one place to another, searching for what?

I didn’t even know anymore. The muse, was it? Or the inspiration. Perhaps a sort of contentment with what we create, the words that flow– the oomph, the x-factor, or simply the joy?

I do not know anymore.

At last, I come to England and meet the son, who is now about 28. He looks at me with skepticism but that fades away when he hears me talk about his mother. He smiles and sighs, saying he misses her. I tell him about my conversations, my search– and his smile falters.

“I don’t have it anymore,” he says. “I don’t.”

I plead, request him to give me something. By this day, I am tired. Exhausted, beat and at my wits ends. I need something. I am getting madder and madder.

“I am sorry,” he goes on. “I really don’t. I still write. But I just.. It’s gone. It was something which is just gone.”

“When did it slip away so?” I question.

“Perhaps when I was 14,” he answers. “Perhaps older or younger.”

I stare and he laughs. 

“We may never know.”

He offers me a stay in his university, saying we could try working together and I accept. I am tired, hopeless but I accept anyway. Weeks pass and nothing comes together– it’s all the same. The same. 

I leave England in the most desolate mood and by the time I am back in my college, I have given up. I rush to my room and I throw my papers in frustration. The ink bottle is hit and dark blue, nearly black, spills onto the floor. It seeps. 

One last time, I pick the old pages up and the new ones. The new ones are better– the better technique, grammar and they are certainly more intelligent. But it is with one look I can tell that they don’t have the ‘it’ like the old stories do.

~

I gave up on writing years ago and I am married now– I have a beautiful spouse and the sweetest little daughter; my little girl, my joy. 

By the time she is nine, she has found my old trunk from the attic. It has the papers, old and new, crumpled and well kept. Countless stories, finished and not. She reads some of them and later asks me about it. I tell her some of it– about my writings, about how I wrote some of them.

“Why did you stop?” she asks. 

She is a child and I don’t know how to explain. “It was only a hobby,” I say. The words ring as false. It was never only a hobby. I had spent months being driven insane, to the brink of my sanity by it. I had spent years honing it, wearing it as my identity. And then I had let go, being as torn as a lover parting from a beloved.

I come back from the office one day to find her. She has been writing, my spouse tells me. And I find it sad how my first instinct was to discourage deep down. But I do not. Instincts and choices must be kept separate. 

She has been writing in afternoons after school and on one such, I go to her. I ask her about it and she says it is a story about a girl who gets a device to make an infinitely huge chocolate sprinkled with candies and sour bites. I throw my head back and laugh. She keeps writing, uncaring.

I manage a glance at her work and my laughter drains.

My daughter has it.

I see it. I see it all too well. Then I look at her and her big eyes, working with no hint of doubt or hesitation– contentment and I am assured that I am right. She hones it masterfully, all that I had been searching for.

She glances at me and her face falls. She lets go of the pen. “Daddy, are you okay?”

I am nearly pale and I am praying.

Praying, hoping, wishing and begging– for her to not lose it. 

Her words are sloppy, her writing is messy– the grammar horrible and the punctuation painful and yet it is perfect, I know. It is enough, I know. It sparkles, it shines. The words dance and sing and form the grandest of plays. 

She nudges me, worried.

I shake my head and then manage a laugh. “You are a genius, you know that?”

She blinks but then realizes that was a compliment. 

She grins. “Just like you.”

~